Folie A Deux
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Erik is dead, say the papers. But deep inside, Christine doubts. She returns to the lair beyond the lake... and discovers more than she ever dreamed possible. Primarily Lerouxbased. COMPLETED.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

The young woman sat still, head bent over her embroidery, breathing slowly as she frowned, focused on her work. In her face was a look of knowledge that did not match up to her seemingly-few years; she looked as though she'd seen too much already, though she was surely not more than nineteen.

She concentrated.

She was a bit too vigorous in her actions, and pricked her finger. With a gasp she threw down the piecework and stared at the point of blood welling up; she seemed almost in shock.

_Was it not bad luck to prick your finger whilst making your wedding dress ?_

With a quick shake of her head she disposed of this backwards thinking, though not of the cold chills that ran down her spine. She searched for a handkerchief but was unable to locate one. She remembered she had given hers to Raoul, the night before. A token. A silly gesture, as he knew quite well she loved him; he _ought_ to know, after all she'd done for him

The entrance of the housekeeper disrupted her reverie. Looking up, she ventured a smile, but Madame le Piere ignored her as usual and simply dropped the evening's newspaper onto the table at her elbow, then left, shutting the door firmly behind her. The sewer cast a glance towards her discarded work then chose to ignore it, taking a deep breath, grasping the papers with one hand in order to wipe the blood off her finger.

It made an unsightly red smear. The girl stared at it and attempted to swallow the lump that rose in her throat. The redness added color to the print, the words of a small headline

The word it turned scarlet was "_Erik._"

The words after it...

Christine dropped the paper and ran.

She did not find much comfort in her intended. Raoul received her with the grave smile he kept for her, his long hair swinging loose around his face, released from its bounds. She could not manage, somehow, to tell him what was the matter.

"I don't understand," he said, reaching for her. She pulled away. "Christine, has something happened? What is the matter?"

She hid her hand behind her back and struggled to keep her voice under control. "Did you not read the evening papers?"

"Yes, I did, at that. What of it?"

"Did you see nothing of interest?" she cried, unwilling to believe that he had not noticed this matter which seemed all-important to her.

He frowned. "I saw nothing that would disturb you thus. Admittedly I did not give it an extensive reading I was distracted, you see, by the arrival of my father"

Christine sobbed. She turned from him and walked quickly from the room, leaving his house immediately. Raoul stared after her, totally at a loss; with a feeling of foreboding he moved to the table and picked up the evenings paper.

This time, the words caught his eye immediately.

"_Erik Is Dead_."

* * *

It was quite late at night, and when Nadir opened the door he was astonished to find the young woman he knew as Christine Daae. He stood there for some seconds in his nightcap, open-mouthed.

"Oh, thank God I have found you!" she cried. "I have found you at last! Please forgive me, sir, I am sorry to disturb you at this late hour. But I I saw the papers and I-- I must know the truth, sir, I must!"

A few minutes later saw her seated in the Persians library, a blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders, a mug of steaming tea in her hand. She sipped it and the wry face she made caused him to chuckle.

"Tea with lemon," she said. "Did he teach you to make it?"

"He did," said Nadir formally. "Please, Miss Daae--- or _is_ it Miss Daae?"

His gentle question caused Christine to tremble.

"It is," she said fiercely. "And it will be for a fortnight yet. Do not attempt to alter the subject. I must know the truth."

He watched the movements of her tiny hands as they gripped the cup.

"Ask me, then, what you have come to ask," he said, his accent falling strange, yet comforting, on her ears. Christine closed her eyes tightly and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop trembling.

"They say he is dead," she said, bit her lip and shook her head. "They say he is dead."

The Persian waited for her to open her eyes once more. Then he bent towards her and said, softly, "What they say is true, Miss Daae."

Christine gave a cry like a wounded animal.

"It cannot be!"

"It is."

"I will not-- I refuse to believe you!"

"Miss Daae, you must," said Nadir with a harder edge to his voice. "I attended his death myself, and oversaw the disposal of his body. Erik-- your Erik-- is as dead as ever anyone was. He is no longer."

She sighed out a sob, and stood, handing him the cup. For a moment she was utterly still, then swallowed hard and stood up straight. "I thank you for your kind indulgence," she said. "Please tell me how he went."

The Persian was at a loss for words at her sudden about-face. Finally he said, "Peacefully," although this was not altogether true.

Christine nodded and very quickly said her farewell, leaving the house at once. Nadir watched her go off into the night, a frown of worry creasing his face. If she chose not to believe--

If she decided to find out for herself--

In fact Christine was reasoning things out in her mind at that moment, and very soon she had determined on a course of action. She did not believe Erik to be dead; it then followed that he must be alive and if alive, he would be in the one place he felt safe, the one place he felt he belonged.

She would go there and find him.

It took her some twenty minutes to walk to the abandoned hulk of the Opera Populaire, as she could not succeed in getting a carriage. No one would pick her up, she reasoned, it was to be expected; undoubtedly she looked like a prostitute, a lady of the night. Singularly appropriate, considering whom she was going to find.

The Opera Populaire, having been devastated by a fire, had transferred owners two or three times since the time Christine worked there. It was now empty, desolate, a shell of its former self--_ much like me_, Christine thought bitterly. _Oh Erik, Erik, we have much more in common than you ever thought possible-- how dreary life is since I left you! How precious to me is the fortnight I have left with my freedom, with my own name!_

She could have gone back to him

No.

No, she could not have. It would have not been the same, Erik would still think of how she left him every time he looked at her, would be afraid of her leaving again. And it did not matter how many times she assured him that she would stay, he would always be afraid.

No, the only possible way she could have gone back

Was like this.

To find his grave and weep over it.

_No_.

She would not believe that he was dead. She must not.

She entered the opera house and made her way towards the basement. The stairways were dusty and creaked as she walked on them, making her exceedingly nervous. Other than the sounds she made, and the sound of her heartbeat, there was absolute silence-- a silence that spoke of dead things, a silence of unnatural proportions and origins. She began to fear.

She walked on, on and down.

She had forgotten that he lived so far below the surface, so far below the sun.

She arrived at last in the labyrinth catacombs that Erik had called home. The boat was gone; she had hardly expected it to be there after all this time; she teetered on the edge of the vast underground lake, but there was no thought of turning back after she'd come all this way. So she steeled herself and entered the water.

It was cold, bone-chillingly cold. Goosebumps emerged at once all over her body, and she shivered and clutched her arms about her as she waded through the water.

It took her some time to achieve the shore that had housed Erik. All was not the same it had been ravaged, as if by some wild beast. She shivered as she stared at it-- had Erik done it himself? Had he been driven to this by his grief after she left?

She emerged from the water and stepped onto the shore. There, looking at the destruction around her, she began to cry.

It was then, when she thought herself more utterly alone than ever, that there was a stirring in the shadows behind her.

Christine turned with a gasp, eyes frantically searching the shadows. What was that sound she heard surely no more than a rat, she tried to reason with herself. There was no possible way

Yes.

Yes, there was.

She cried aloud, "Erik!"

Only silence answered her. Struck by it, she began to sob as she called his name over and over again

"Erik! Erik!"

She cried herself out, tears running in rivers down her face, until she was curled on the floor in a fetal position, rocking back and forth in the damp dust, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Erik--"

At last she managed to stop herself crying, taking long, shaky, shuddering breaths and struggling to her feet. This place was empty, as though never seen or touched by humans, the air never breathed through warm lips she clutched her arms to her chest and stared out at the water.

A hand grasped her by the shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Christine shrieked aloud and spun around. A man stood there, his face hidden by a hooded cloak, his form hunched and dusty as though he too had been abandoned here to rot. He did not speak, and though she could not see his face, she felt his gaze upon her.

This was not— _could_ not be Erik. It had been only two months— could he have collapsed like this in that short time?

She finally ventured, "You frightened me."

The dusty chuckle that escaped the figure was more disturbing than screams would have been. "I am always frightening people, it seems. It would appear to be my lot in life."

"Good God in heaven," she breathed. "It _is_ you!"

Slowly the hulk of a man straightened up, casting his hood backwards to show his face. The strong features of the left side of the face were there, exactly as they had been— the right side, constantly covered by a mask when she had known him before, was now hidden by a strange rig-  
up that confused her— where had his mask gone?

She managed, falteringly, to ask him.

Erik stared at her with his riveting blue eyes. "Gone for two months, no sight or sound of you, and when you come back, that is all you can think to ask? I wonder about you, Madame de Chagny, I really do." 

"But... I... I am not"

"Your friend in the ballet, the daughter of Madame Giry— she took it. She came with the mob, and she found my mask, and she took it. I was left to fend for myself, you see— " He gestured at the awkward assemblage that covered his right side. "I don't believe I did too bad a job." Another dusty chuckle accompanied this.

Christine stared at him, tears seeping once more from her eyelids. "I thought I was done crying," she said.

He stared back. "So did I," he said softly.

There was a look in his eyes that she did not like. She stepped forward, gritting her teeth. She was afraid of him now, of his physical being, though shed never truly feared his touch before. She realized she was not yet convinced that he was real, and not an apparition.

"I heard you were dead, Erik. It— was in the papers— "

"Ah yes." He looked away, studied the ceiling, far above their heads and dripping water. "Well, there was a reason for it. I don't believe I need go into that at the moment. But rest assured, Madame de Chagny— there was reason, and a very good one."

"You wanted me to think you were dead," she said, comprehending.

Erik continued to stare at the ceiling, nodding only slightly.

Christine wiped her eyes. "Why, Erik?" she asked.

His eyes flicked back and captured hers. "Why did you come here, Madame de Chagny? Why leave your comfortable home and your loving husband, and come here to these dark cellars to seek out a man you had forgotten the moment he was out of your sight?"

She said, not very clearly, "I wanted— to find out— "

Erik smiled. It was a very slow, mean smile. "_I _know why." 

"I only— "

He reached out with a suddenness that made her start and captured her hand. "You have come back to me," he said, bringing her hand to his face and pressing his lips to her wrist. "You have come back— to stay."

She couldn't contradict him, not then, not like that. He drew her closer and she looked at the mask he had contrived.

"Erik— "

"Ah, yes, my dear. My face need frighten no one any longer." He chuckled once more, and the sound sent shivers down her spine. "You will find, to your regret, that this is one mask that will not come off."

It was true.

The rough white cloth was sewn to the flesh of his face.

With difficulty, gulping down the bile that rose in her throat at the sight of it, Christine tore her gaze away from the loose stitches and fixed her eyes on his.

"You wanted me to believe you were dead," she said, returning to the former subject. "I— I did not believe it, Erik. I did not want to believe it."

He tilted his head and looked at her. "Could you have gone through life with an angel looking over your shoulder?" he asked wistfully. "If you believed me to be alive, you would not be happy. You would have known the depths of my misery, and it would have prefaced your own. I have faith in the goodness of your soul, Christine— there is no badness in you, no lowness of thought." 

It was too much, this burden of being thought perfect. Christine shook her head.

"And my gamble was rewarded," continued Erik softly.

Christine dared not ask what he meant by this. Suddenly she was overcome by the sensation of relief— relief that he was not dead. She stumbled forwards and caught him in her arms.

"Oh, Erik!"

For a moment he nearly relaxed against her, the muscles of his arms becoming taut as his hands moved to her back. For a moment he held her against him, gloried in her heartbeat. For a moment all seemed well.

Then he put her away from him, gently but firmly.

"Madame de Chagny," he said formally, "such forward behavior is not in keeping with a virtuous young wife."

"But— "

"I must beg you not to touch me again." She listened to his breath, listened for a hint that he was stirred in some manner by her nearness, her presence, but his breathing was as even and level as his voice. There returned to him the nearly cold aloofness that had been present all those months ago when he had first begun to tutor her.

Such a long time ago—

She kept herself from drifting into memory and focused on the present. Erik was here, here now, standing in front of her, and she felt the same old mix of fear and pleasure that he had always excited in her. His voice hurt her, in calling her Madame de Chagny, Raoul's wife— she wanted to hear him call her Christine, as he had ever done before.

She tried again.

"Erik, I must tell you, I am not"

"Perhaps you have come back for more lessons," he suggested, turning his face away from her. With that horrid whiteness of the mask hidden from her, his face looked normal; a little sunken, a little tired, a little older than when she had seen him last— but real. Gloriously real and tangible, physical— 

His eyes swept back to her and she started as their gazes met. Clear blue his gaze was, deep as night, implacable as death.

"Singing lessons," she ventured. "No, no I have not. I have stopped singing, Erik."

She had thought that surely he would protest this, this needless waste of her talent, but he simply appeared to take the knowledge in, nodding slowly as he assimilated it.

"Perhaps it is as it should be," he said. "I always said you should sing for me, did I not, Christine?"

It was so different from Raoul's encouragement that she continue with her career that she took a minute to think about it.

"Yes," she said at last, slowly. "You always wished me to sing for you, Erik. It was my gift to you, I suppose; my thanks for teaching me. But now..."

She wanted him to ask her why she no longer sang. She had a nicely dramatic answer all prepared.

_I do not sing, Erik, because you are no longer there to hear me._

But he did not ask. He walked away from her, ascending to the large chair that was more like a throne, situated in the centre of the room. He sat on it, back straight, eyes turning inward, brooding.

"Tell me, Madame de Chagny, what goes on in the world above?"

"The world is the same as it ever was," she said with terrible calmness. "It goes ever on as it has since its creation. Erik— I did not come to talk of the condition of society. I must tell you— "

Very slowly, his head with its sunken cheek and half-white starkness looked up at her.

"I am not married," she said, and faltered at once, for the change in him was immediate and great. He breathed in short, rapid gasps, his eyes wide as he panted as if he'd been running. She attempted to explain further but he had stood, one hand out, stopping her words on her lips.

"You are not married," he repeated, his tone quiet, as though he did not believe what he himself said. "You are _not_."

She shook her head mutely.

Erik gave a cry that sounded so alien to her ears that she jumped. It was a cry of relief, of surprise, of such intense joy that she winced to hear it. He came towards her, hands outstretched, and stopped just short of touching her.

"My child," he said fondly. "You are not married, and you have returned to me." She looked at him and saw tears in his eyes. "You have made me so happy," he whispered.

The tears overran his eyes, and she moved forward into his embrace.

His lips moved against her hair.

"I hoped— I prayed you would come— you would come back to me— and now you have!"

Something about it was so wrong, that even in the midst of her comfort, in his warm embrace, it got through to her, and she stiffened. But it was too late. He had let her go and whirled away, reaching for a lever high up on a wall.

"Now the world can be shut away at last!" he cried, and pulled the lever.

The gate came down, trundling ponderously, blocking the entrance to Erik's underground lair— 

And the exit.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Short chapter, sorry! There were some technical difficulties as I was recovering this. A few people said the story was familiar: yes, it was posted before, under my sister's username (I had been suspended from FF dot net for a month, but don't get me started on that, my ranting is not pretty). I took it down to post it on my account, and that's when the disk I had it saved on got corrupted out of the blue, and I lost the story. However, I found the edited-for-content version I had saved on my father's computer, and managed to reconstruct some of the more interesting parts, as well as re-editing and re-writing. So basically what you're getting is the new and hopefully improved version of a story I wrote five months ago.**

Three

For some moments Christine stood dumbfounded, staring at the grate that covered the entrance to Erik's lair. It was made of iron, cold, moss-covered, implacable— she could not believe that it now stood between her and her means of escape.

"Erik—"

He turned back to her, joy shining brightly and strangely from his eyes, from his face. "Yes, yes, my dear, now the world can go to hang! You were all the world to me, all that was worth living for. I could not shut it out, I could not shut it out, as long as you were still out there, there had to be a way— a way for you to return. But now you are here. Now I need no longer care about the rest of the earth."

"But, Erik! I did not come to stay!"

She could tell at once that this bluntness was the wrong tone to take, for the joy dissipated in an instant and his eyes turned dark and stormy.

"You came back to me," he repeated stubbornly. "You left your lover, your perfect man, left him without your presence— as I have been without—"

"I had to find out the truth," she said. "This was forced upon me."

He reacted with anger.

"Forced? Forced are you, now? Forced to travel to the bowels of the earth to find the carcass of the man who taught you to sing, who freed your voice and gave you wings? Christine, you are mistaken. You would not have come back if you did not want to." He stalked over to her and bent his tall, painfully thin frame over her small one, looking in her eyes. "You used to call me your angel, Christine—"

"No," she whispered. "_You_ used to call _me _your angel. We cannot both be angels, Erik."

Slowly he straightened and backed away from her.

"You have come back to me," he said quietly. "And I know what is in your heart. I know why you are here. I know you, Christine, and I tell you, you would not have come if you did not _want_ to."

With a quick movement and a strength born of rage, he ripped the lever from the wall. There was a groan of tortured metal, matching the groan of pent-up grief that escaped from his lips. He turned back to her, wielding the lever like a sword between them.

"I will give you time, of course," he said. "Time for you to realize all this on your own. You always were just the tiniest bit slow, Christine. But fear not— for now we have all the time in the world."

Christine bit back a sob as she looked at the man in front of her. Even in the throes of his madness she had loved him before, when he was her Angel of Music. This man before her now was entirely different— no longer a creature of nights lit by fire, now a creature of nights that were cold and starless, a creature of dust, a creation of architecture that was ready to fall apart but could not seem to gather the last bit of energy necessary. And yet he still stood between her and her way out.

Well.

With a great effort, she steadied her breathing.

She could stay, for a while.

She would find a way out, there must be other means of egress in this labyrinth, but for now—

She would stay here with her Erik and try to make up for what she'd done.

Abandonment. There was no other word for it.

Her regret of this was what kept her from losing it right then and there, from flying at Erik in a frenzy of rage and claustrophobia and demanding he show her the sun at once.

Instead, she gulped and moved towards him.

He looked at her, and for a moment she almost believed that he was as nervous as she.

"Will you play for me?" she asked quietly.


	4. Chapter 4

Four

"Will I play?" he repeated. His voice broke. "Will I play— will I play— answer me this, Christine, my Christine— will you sing for me?"

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. "I will sing for you, Erik."

He smiled, he laughed, suddenly giddy as a child, so pleased to have her back again. He took her hand and led her to the organ that sat moldering and half destroyed against the far wall.

He seated himself before it; he smoothed down the legs of his trousers; his fingers twitched and hesitated above the ravaged keys. Christine bit her lip, looking at the thing. It would not, it could not play— not anything worth hearing, anyway.

Erik brought down his fingers on the keys, softly, gently as a father to a child—

There was no air in the bellows. He did not pump the pedals. But somewhere in the hulk of the ruined instrument the music's spirit lurked still— under Erik's coaching fingertips, the organ produced the ghost of sound, a sound as soft and sweet and lonely as a violin.

Christine stifled a sob.

He was playing for her.

The music called to her—

"_Christine, Christine_—"

The music knew her as no one did. It knew her name, her mind and her soul, it wrapped warm fingers about her heart and held on. It beckoned to her and toyed with her and tossed her into the air and caught her as she fell. It was comfort, an embrace she dreamt about, it was everything, it was love.

It was Erik's voice calling to her now.

The dulcet strains of the violin disappeared and in its place the organ was moaning with Erik's sweetly seductive tones, as his fingers danced deftly over the keyboards and his mouth did not move. Christine stood still, hearing and understanding every word. It was pure pain to hear and not respond, pain of the most exquisite sort. Erik's voice whispered over her body and groveled at her feet and begged her and begged her and begged her—

She wished he would stop, and she could return to herself.

She wished he would never stop, and she would become someone else.

He stopped.

He turned to look at her after a long moment of silence, while the ghost of the music lingered like dust motes in the air. The mask was a travesty, she thought— he should never hide himself.

He looked at her with his ancient eyes.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she faltered. "I know I did not sing with you— I got caught up in the music—"

He sighed.

"I _heard_ you, Christine," he said. "_I _heard you singing."

She dared not ask him what he meant. It didn't matter anyhow.

She knew already.

It crept quickly into her heart, the thought that perhaps an eternity of Erik and Erik's music and only Erik would not be such a bad thing.

She tried to banish the thought quickly. She did not want to stay here forever. She had a life to live back on the surface, things to do—

Though for the life of her she could not remember what they were—

Raoul.

That was it.

Raoul.

Raoul would not know where she was, he would worry, and if he worried she would worry. He had done so much for her, and their friendship ran deep and strong after all these years.

She had to convince Erik to let her go, to let her free.

But not now.

Now she could stay with him and enjoy his company, listen to that pleading, commanding voice and beg him and beg him and beg him—

She swallowed.

"Please," she said, "won't you play again, Erik?"

He stared at her for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. "It is late," he said. "You should be in bed, my child." He stood from the organ and walked towards her— once he was in her reach she grasped him by the lapels of his coat.

"Erik, you don't really think of me as your child, do you?"

The look on his face made it clear that this, also, was a mistake.

"I beg your pardon," she murmured quietly. "I only wanted to know. I felt I had to ask. Erik—"

He had detached her hands from him now and was leading her, leading her without ever touching her, in the direction of her bedroom, where she used to stay when she slept down here. He turned towards her now in attentive response.

"Erik— I do not think of you as my father."

She shivered with the confession.

Again his face suggested that this was not a good thing to say, but also she sensed that he knew it quite well.

"I should suppose so," he remarked airily. "For after all, one does not kiss their father as you kissed me, Christine— or does one? I would not know. I never knew my father."

"No," she breathed, as he stood aside to let her into her room, "one does not."

He followed her to her bed, reaching for the candle to take it out of the room. He did not look at her as she turned down the blanket and lay down.

She reached up from where she lay on the musty sheets and grasped his sleeve.

"Erik— you don't think of me as your child. I know you do not."

He looked down at her small hand, holding his sleeve.

"No," he whispered. "I do not."

"Erik— you should not have to wear a mask."

"No— I should not." She made him feel, in that moment, that almost anything was possible. Almost anything. Almost.

Certainly not what she did next.

She sat up and wrapped him in her arms, pressing her face to his chest, holding on as though for dear life. He allowed her to embrace him, feeling as though he was waiting something out— surely she would release him from this beautiful torture_— her touch her hair her body her voice her love— _in just a moment. Just one moment more. Just one moment—

She did not. She pulled him forwards and down, down beside her, her arms still clasped about his back. Warning bells went off in his mind but that was just the insanity speaking and he managed, by great effort of will, to ignore it for a time.

They were silent together, like children playing a game in which they do not wish to be disturbed.


	5. Chapter 5

Five

Erik fought.

He stood on the edge of a cliff— a precipice of desire yawed beneath him, and he fought desperately, danced away to keep his body from throwing itself off, heedless of the destruction that must inevitably follow.

_How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?_

His hands caught at Christine's arms suddenly and she gasped. They forced her down on the bed as he levered himself up above her. His gaze burned into her eyes.

"We will not be had, you and I," he said. "We are monsters and madmen. We are _not_ animals."

He pushed himself off her and walked away, moving slowly and stiffly like an old man, without any of his usual grace.

Perhaps he _was _an old man.

Christine watched him go.

Just how long had Erik been around?

What kind of tricks did he know— what kind of game was he playing to leave her in this state?

He had been heavy with the warmth of reality, that great weight on her, his skin suddenly no longer cold, blossoming into life under her fingertips—

She sighed, because she didn't think she could bear to cry any more that day.

He had been right— it was late— and perhaps everything she did was a mistake. Perhaps she should leave things as they had been, and never hope for more. The light was gone now— he hadn't taken it with him but somehow it had gone out. Her door was ajar as he'd left it and she didn't dare leave her bed to close it. There were monsters under the bed—

She turned her head to the wall and waited patiently for the tears to come. When they did they were born of frustrated longing more than anything else, and this surprised her. They had the same effect, however, and she rocked herself slowly as she cried herself to sleep.

She slept dreamlessly, more deeply than she had in years. She hadn't slept like that since she was a child and would drift off with her father sitting in a chair by the fire, violin in hand, eyes kind and face warm.

Her last thought was a wish that when she awoke, she would remember nothing of what had happened, that Erik's rejection of her would be wiped from her mind.

But when morning came, as it did in the usual manner without regard for her feelings, she sat up in bed and instantly her thoughts flew to the night before. Erik's eyes burning into her, his hands on her, the gate sliding shut—

She cowered back onto the bed, drawing the musty covers up to her chin and shutting her eyes tightly. She did not want to get up. She did not ever want to see Erik, or anyone, ever again.

There was silence from the main rooms, anyway. Perhaps Erik wasn't even awake yet. Perhaps he lay in the coffin in which he slept, eyes closed, arms crossed atop his chest, breathing slowly—

She was overcome by a desire to find out what he looked like when he slept.

It was strong enough to cause her to leave the dubious refuge of the bed and venture to the door. It was shut now— by Erik's hand, no doubt. He probably feared her intrusion on him once more, she thought bitterly— he must think her all things awful for the overtures she'd made, when they hadn't been invited.

Only—

They_ had_.

No. It had been a figment of her imagination, that was all— the result of two months of dreaming about him, for, awake and asleep, he had not left her mind for a moment. And this wasn't what she had come down here for anyway—

She shivered as she realized she had accomplished what she had come down here for, and yet she could not leave. And it wasn't just because of the gate.

_Erik, your soul binds me to you more surely than any chains_—

She had done with thinking— she had to do something. Steeling herself before the door, she reached down towards the knob, a sudden fear breaking over her as she did so— suppose it should be locked? He had locked her in here before—

It was not locked.

She opened the door and caught her breath.

Erik was not asleep.

He sat at the great organ, hands at his sides, head bowed. His wasted form was so utterly still and silent that for a moment she feared he must be dead. But in response to her cry, his head lifted, and he stared with those implacable blue eyes at the ceiling for a moment, running one hand through his sparse hair. All of his grace was back in his body— gone was the hint of age that she had seen the night before, when he denied her.

This didn't make things better.

It made them worse.

Christine clutched her arms to her chest and hugged herself, biting her lip, waiting for him to say something.

He stood, a fluid motion, and stepped away from the organ. His eyes turned back towards her and she shivered.

His lips moved.

She could not hear what he said.

Her helpless expression seemed to indicate as much to him, and he cleared his throat and tried again.

"Breakfast, my dear?" he enquired, all the marks of a gallant gentleman on his face.

He fed her. It was poor food, especially when compared to the sumptuous meals she ate when she dined with Raoul de Chagny— but then Raoul never cooked for himself. He employed three cooks at home, one for each meal. Erik prepared her food himself, washing his hands gravely first, moving slowly and deliberately.

This—

_This _was the proud Phantom of the Opera?

This was the man who would kill for her— he would cook for her too?

The absurdity of the situation struck her at that moment and she laughed. Erik looked at her with startled eyes. She laughed on, utterly unable to stop herself— he did not join her in her gaiety, but returned his gaze to the meal he was devising and concentrated on that. Christine laughed, laughed until she could make no more sound, until she ran out of breath and noise. She sat in dead silence as Erik brought her food and set the plate before her, giving her a deep and somehow mocking bow.

_See what I do for you_, said his eyes.

She looked up and met his gaze.

No, he would not say anything about the night before. He had probably already forgotten it.


	6. Chapter 6

Six

He had not forgotten.

When she had come, he was hiding. He had heard the back door of the Opera Populaire creep open, and was instantly on his guard— even now he had phenomenal hearing, even after late fifty years, most of which had been spent in close contact with some very loud instrument or other. The organ was only the latest— and for a while he had feared it would never play again—

He went up the quickest way to the ground floor of the opera house, winding along passages only he had ever seen, only he would ever be able to find. When he saw her, just a glimpse at first as she entered the opera house proper, his breath caught in his throat and he thought he would die.

He thought he _had_ died.

He thought an angel had come for him.

No, this was a woman. Christine was a woman, not an angel— and he would never make_ that_ mistake again— he had been so sure she would stay with him, so positive— even though he threw in the threat to the young Vicomte as well— that was just it, only a threat, nothing more— _he_ would do the Vicomte no harm, that was certain.

And then Christine—

And then Christine kissed him—

He debated with himself for days, weeks afterwards, as to what that meant. Was it simply a way to defuse an admittedly awkward situation? Or did she— was she— could she—

Her lips were so soft, the softest things he'd ever felt, the only things ever to touch his face— she was so warm, so warm against him, and he was ashamed, embarrassed because he knew how cold he was, he knew exactly how cold—

Christine was a woman, and she had made her choice— only— she'd never actually _said_ it. Words were important to Erik, sometimes they were all he had, and when they were not said, he felt their loss. Christine had not spoken her choice. Granted, it was implied in her actions—

Her actions—

More of reactions, he supposed.

Perhaps the whole thing had been a mistake, a dreadful miscarriage on his part. Perhaps he should have left things as they were, and not dared to hope for more.

_Could any man be damned simply for hoping— or is it just Erik?_

But he would not take all the blame, oh no, not all of it, certainly not all. Some of it most definitely belonged to the girl and her young man. It was their names he cursed in the deep of night when he could not sleep— and it was she he begged forgiveness from when he became remorseful.

And now she was here, she had come back—

For the first time in a very, very long time, hope had leapt into his heart. It had him by the throat— it choked him— he thought he was dying—

Christine was hurrying now, having finished staring in wonder at the deserted opera house around her, hurrying towards the cellars, through the only entrance she knew of, the opening behind the mirror in her former dressing room. The mirror was long gone now, the opening would have gaped open like a wound had some considerate soul not dragged a large, heavy chest of drawers in front of it. He watched her for a moment, struggling with the weight of the unwieldy furniture, then was gone, back down to the lair beyond the lake to wait for her.

She came, soon enough. She was quicker than he would have thought, having surmounted even the obstacle of the lake. She came wading through the water, totally drenched, shivering, clutching her arms about herself— she looked bedraggled and forlorn and abject and exquisitely, painfully beautiful.

He had waited as long as he could, watching her crumple to the ground in tears, biting his fingers till they bled to keep himself from crying out to her, waited for her to pull herself together and stand back up to say a last goodbye—

Even then he did not really believe she had come back to stay.

His mind, his wicked, madman's mind, said she had. _Of course_, it whispered treacherously to him, _of course she has. She loves you, she has always loved you, why should she not return to where she longs to be? _

But his heart knew better. His heart was wiser.

It wasn't until she said she was not married that his heart began to believe—

To Erik, all his actions from that moment had been completely rational. She had come to stay, and so there was no reason for the main entrance. He could get out if he needed to, get out and obtain provisions, buy or steal anything she wished— he would descend even to that for Christine. He would do anything for Christine.

Except—

When she drew him down besides her on the bed, his mind was crowded with a million voices shouting at him, all shouting in unison, all shouting the same thing—

"_Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong!"_

He had ignored them, but only briefly. His body had taken over, but only for such a short time—

Then he returned to himself. He knew her. She would play tricks on him, play him false. It did not matter what her eyes said to him as he left her there — the eyes could lie. The eyes could be made to lie.

The body could be made to lie as well, and the way she felt under him, _open invitation_, must be blatant deception. There was no reason for him to trust her, or anything she did, or anything she said.

Even if her eyes were pleading, begging him, begging him, begging—

He could slough all that off. He was not insane. He was not insane.

Look.

Look at his fingers, his age-tempered hands. They did not shake. They did not move unless he willed them to. Surely an insane man would not have such control.

His fingers longed to be buried in Christine's hair, his mouth ached to feel her kisses—

Surely an insane man would not have such control—?


	7. Chapter 7

Seven

Christine found her gaze drawn repeatedly to the white that stayed ever close to Erik's right cheek.

The cloth was clumsily cut— unusual, she thought— deftness of hand was Erik's trademark. She wondered at this— it worried her.

"You say Meg took it?"

He did not need to ask what she was referring to.

"Mademoiselle Giry— yes."

"Erik—" He looked up and his eyes met hers. "Tell me what happened."

He sighed, breath hissing out through his teeth.

"You left. People came. I hid myself away."

His explanation was heartbreaking even in its terseness. She did not want to know— not really— but something in her, that deep and sure sadness and compassion, compelled her to say, "More—"

"I— I hid myself away. There was a place— a hole, really— dark— no-one could find me there. No-one knew of its existence— except me— and Nadir. The daroga— the daroga came for me."

"How long, Erik?"

He shivered and shook.

"How long were you there, Erik?" she repeated.

"A week!" It burst from him at last. "A week I was there— or was it ten days— I no longer recall, and I do not wish to. I am not there now, Christine— I am here now, I am here with you, and everything is different."

"Its not so different," said Christine quietly. "Not really. Tell me more, Erik."

"I have no more to give! I have told you all I can remember! It was a hole— steep-sided, small, close, cramped, unfit for a human to live in— but it was fine for me— oh, _fine_ for someone such as I— I have told you all I wish, and now it hurts me. It hurts me, Christine, you make my head ache." He slumped back down onto his chair, his head in his hands, his fingers pushing through his hair, moaning erratically. Christine started towards him but as she moved he was sitting straight instantly, his eyes giving her a warning— _stay away_.

This, then, was the place she feared the most— the hole in his heart where even his beloved could not intrude— if she was his beloved any more, which she doubted more and more every moment.

If she was his beloved, would he have turned her away last night?

Would he have let her go two months ago?

He was trying to keep her now, she thought, but she didn't know why.

"Why, Erik?"

His head returned to his hands instantly and he moaned in pain.

"It hurts— it hurts—"

She reached out a hand towards him but again his head snapped up and her fingers fell short of touching him.

"Why, Erik? Why?"

He leapt to his feet and loomed over her, his impossibly thin frame shaking with rage, with emotion, with—

She dared not think.

"Why, you say!" he roared at her. "Why does it hurt? Why do I keep crying when there is nothing new to cry over? Why to return to the old hurts, the old haunts, the old injuries and wounds— tell me why you left me, Christine, if it comes to that— and why you return— if it is to do me injury again I tell you it will be the last— the last, Christine— Christine, my ang— no, no angel— _no! No angel_! Christine, I am dying— Christine, I will die soon— Christine, you have condemned me, you weighed me and measured me and found me lacking and soon I will die, crawl back into my hole and shrivel up as life leaves me. And you will be there, with your love the Vicomte, he will be happy, you will be happy and laughing, your hands held protectively over your swollen belly— _you will bear a child, Christine, and if it is mine it too will die!_"

He was away, then, leaving her on her own, her body shaking as she tried to take everything in. Through it all the only thing that reached her was the pain of his words— _Christine, I am dying— Christine, I will die soon—_

Erik dying!

Erik, leaving her again!

"It must not be," she spoke through clenched teeth at the worn tabletop. "It cannot happen, I will not allow it to happen. He will not leave me!"

She began to struggle to her feet but her sobs overcame her and she sagged back into the chair, wracked with pain, pounding her fists on the table in a vicious drumbeat of fury and sorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

Eight

Things calmed down.

Christine had long since cried herself out and was staring with sightless eyes at the tabletop when she heard a sound from the great room. Taking a deep breath, she stumbled to her feet and steadied herself for a moment on the back of the chair, composing herself.

Then she made her way to the main room.

Erik sat at the organ, his fingers poised once more. It had been some time since he left, and the tear-tracks that had traced their way down the visible portion of his face were fading out, rubbed into oblivion by his fingers. Christine spared a glance at the grate that still covered the entrance.

What did it matter now?

Her mind was made up, and she no longer belonged to the world on the surface.

All that was worth living for was seated at the organ, stretching his arms and smiling strangely to himself.

Erik stroked the organ's worn keys— he took comfort in the feel of them, in the hollows his fingers had worn in the ivory. This at least would never betray him—

He had ravaged the room when Christine left, and then the mob had finished the job he'd started. But the organ had remained mostly intact, somehow, by some miracle.

Until Nadir found him, curled in the hole like a rat, sweat-drenched and dirty, arms wrapped around himself as he slowly starved to death. He had emerged, washed himself, changed his clothes, put back on the facade of a well-groomed man that he had cultivated for so long— Nadir had left, satisfied of the return of Erik's sanity—

And then the long hour with the needle and thread and scissors, helped greatly by an unhealthy dose of morphine. He had giggled to himself as he stitched the mask on, his hands shaky, nearly poked himself in the eye with the needle— that would have been unlucky— he had enough wrong with him, he didn't need to be half blind as well.

And then to the organ while he waited for the blood to stop flowing and dry, the mask a new comfort on his face that could not be taken away, the pain so necessary and so beneficial that he reveled in it.

He stayed at the organ for two months. It was at the end of it that the great instrument started to lose its sound— it had lost its beautiful appearance long before— but then the sound went as well, and Erik became afraid—

Then Christine appeared and the sound returned.

Now, Erik smiled to himself. Nothing could go wrong while he played. Nothing was allowed to go wrong. In the world that his music created, he was all-powerful, he dictated and commanded and served, slaved, the music as his king.

His fingers itched to meet the keyboards. He held off a moment longer, to prove to himself the control that now seemed so vital—

He laid his fingers down.

Christine could not see anything that went on from where she stood just inside passage door. She could only see Erik's back, straight at first, then gradually growing more hunched— there was no sound in the great room. There was absolute silence.

Erik suddenly launched into a frenzy of movement, his arms flying about as he stabbed and pounded at the keys of the distraught organ—

There was still no sound.

Christine watched. She did not understand.

She didn't comprehend what Erik was doing—

He whirled on her angrily for the second time that day— this time his composure broke utterly and as he advanced, screaming, tears rolled unheeded down his face once more.

"You stole it— you _stole_ it, give it back!"

Christine backed away nervously.

"What— Erik, I don't understand—"

"It was here! It was here before you came! Now you are here and it is gone! You stole it from me, give it back!"

"But Erik—"

He changed tone, suddenly wheedling, pleading— "Please, Christine, return it to me— I can't imagine what you think you are going to do with it—"

"Erik! Erik, I don't understand!"

She was frantic now, and he had slumped to his knees at her feet, crying helplessly like a small child, reaching his hands towards her in supplication.

"Give it back," he sobbed.

"I don't understand!" she screamed.

"My _music_, Christine— _you stole my music_— give it back!"

Then, she knew.

The organ had given up the ghost at last, and Erik was left barren and bereft. She cried for him as he crawled on the ground, weeping, tearing at his hair— this was the love of his life, then, his music— this held a place in his heart that she could never attain to—

She joined him on the ground, holding him in her arms; their tears ran together and she begged him to let it go.

They were both worn out with weeping, and covered in dust from the floor. Erik lay on his back, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Christine's head lay on his chest, her arms about him— a position she never would have dared assume had she not known him to be half out of his mind with grief.

Erik's composure and a small measure of his sanity had returned to him. As he lay there, he felt Christine's hand begin stroking his neck, trying to get him to turn and look at her. He resisted. He firmed his muscles and tensed his body, letting her know by every way possible short of words that her presence, so close and near, was unwelcome.

_The body can be made to lie_—

Christine, with uncharacteristic alacrity, took the hint.

She stood at once and brushed herself off, staring in ill-disguised disgust at the dust that clung to her.

"Erik, I don't like to bother you, but I would dearly like to have a bath."

Erik refused to look at her.

"The lake," he said, pointing languidly, "is over there."

She stared at him, stared at the lake, stared at him again.

"Erik, I cannot bathe in the lake!"

"Why not? I have bathed in the lake for a great number of years."

"Which," she said tightly, "is a goodly part of the reason why I shouldn't."

He laughed and stood up.

"Christine, what would you have me do? Ascend to the surface and steal a tub with gold-plated taps? Even if I did, the water would still have to come from the lake. You must content yourself with it, then, my girl. I promise you nothing will harm you."

She eyed him warily. This sudden lightness of mood was unusual for him— especially after the weeping insanity she had witnessed not half an hour before. She supposed that insane people had an excuse, however—

Erik sensed her watching him and turned a scowl on her. She relaxed visibly, and started towards the lake.

"I shall— I shall have to undress."

"Naturally, my dear. I should not dream of taking a bath otherwise."

"Would you be so kind as to give me some privacy?" she said icily.

"Absolutely." He took her by the shoulders and steered her towards the left half of the bay that was enclosed by the grate. "You bathe over here, and I shall bathe— over here." He left her standing there and walked to the other side, quite calmly removing his jacket and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

She stared at him, and as he kept going, averted her eyes suddenly. "Erik, you cannot be serious!"

"Never more so, dearest."

"Erik, but—"

Erik's mind was working very quickly. Half of it was screaming _what are you doing? _at him, and the other half was feeling almost— normal. Sane. They were, after all, both need of a bath— and something inside told him that when you wanted to seduce a woman, you created circumstances where seduction would come as a natural result. He didn't want Christine, and yet he would give anything to have her, and he thought if he presented her with the possibilities, she would, perhaps, take over— so quickly, he had gone from being all-powerful to almost a child, looking for guidance. But in his mind it all made sense— this was logical, this was sane. He was not insane.

But he worried, oh yes, he worried.

To lie with Christine, temporary pleasure, end result a child born dead, almost undoubtedly, a little corpse baby like him.

Best not to think about it. Best to let things take their course.

His sanity was yawing wildly, released by the loss of his music, his obsession. Now there was only one obsession left— and he was attempting to trap it, to pin it down, to hold it in front of him and gaze at it with wide eyes and consume it with his body—

Christine let out an exasperated sigh.

"I am sorry, Erik, I don't know the rules to the game you are playing. You are not allowed to be a perfect gentleman one minute and then— undressing in front of me the next. This whole situation is highly improper. I will wait in my room until you are done."

She moved off to her room, wanting so badly to stay near him—

_What are you doing, Christine? Where are you going, leaving him behind?_

_I refuse to play his game_, she thought darkly. _This is not a silly infatuation, and it will not benefit from being treated as such._

_You say you refuse to play his game, yet you were trying to play your own last night. Isn't it true that you object, not to the game itself, but the manner in which it is played out?_

_Love should be taken seriously._

_He is quite serious._

_On the contrary, I suspect him of being— I don't know what he is being! But certainly he is not treating me with the respect I deserve— _

_Respect_, said her subconscious wearily. _There you go about respect again. Well, when you decide what you want, let me know, will you?_

That was just the problem. What she wanted was on the other side of the door at this moment, stepping into the water, the liquid sliding up his legs to his waist as he immersed himself—

There was a great crash from the other room.

Christine started, then ran for the door. She was shocked at the scene she emerged into.

Erik stood, bare to the waist, his hair hanging ragged around his flushed face, a chair gripped tightly in his hands. He was smashing the organ to pieces with it, crashing it, bringing it at long last to utter ruin.

He hit it once more and stopped as he noticed her standing there, her eyes wide, her hand at her heart. He stood and stared at her, embarrassment and shame climbing into his eyes as he dropped the chair.

"I only wanted," he said, like a small child. "I only wanted."

She stepped into the room. "What, Erik?"

"I only wanted you here with me, Christine," he mumbled, as his chest heaved with his exertion, and he tried to keep her from noticing that his torso lacked clothing.

Christine had observed this at once and could not take her eyes from him. He could not be that old, after all— his skin was firm about his frame, he was so thin, so painfully, perfectly, unbelievably thin—

Her heart caught in her throat and she flew to him.


	9. Chapter 9

Nine

How long it had been since he let her go! How he cursed the day he knew he loved her, this selfish, beautiful child, who had hold of his heart and refused to let go—

Once again, he allowed her to embrace him, let her wind her arms about him and press close to him. He stood stiff and still, unwilling to move, unwilling to respond.

"Erik," she whispered into the base of his throat, "you will have to learn to trust me."

He lowered his head to speak in her ear, but did not move other than that.

"I trust no one, you least of all."

"But I love you, Erik— I love you more than I love anyone. I've never loved like this before—"

Her words shattered, broke off at her lips. Erik's head bowed.

"I do not trust you," he repeated in a whisper.

She raised his head to look at her.

"_Learn_," she whispered, and leaned in to take possession of his mouth with her own. His hand came up and he stopped her from doing so.

"Prove it to me," he said.

She stared at him with wide, blank eyes.

"How?"

"I don't know. But prove it to me."

She frowned in agony of thought, chewed her lip, let him go reluctantly and paced. "Erik, I tell you, I made the wrong decision when I chose Raoul. I see that now."

"You did not make a decision at all," he interrupted her.

She whirled and looked at him. "Did I not?"

"No. Not by your words."

Relief broke over her face and she laughed. "Well, there you have it— the answer to your conundrum. I never made my choice." She came closer to him. "I am making it now."

He breathed in, the warmth and the scent of her.

"Are you," he murmured, his eyes faraway.

She nodded and ventured closer.

"What should you have done, had I said I'd chosen Raoul?"

He sighed. In his heart he believed that he would have sent them both away, away together to go and be happy. But his madman's mind knew the truth—

"He would have died. You would have died. I would have died, last of all. Rage cannot be annulled when it exists in a madman's heart, Christine— I should not know how to stop myself, once I began, and even now our broken bodies would lie here on the ground— I would think to myself, at least that way we could be together forever— at least that way nothing could ever come between us—"

Fear leapt at once into Christine's eyes.

"You would have killed?" she faltered.

Erik stood before her, honest for once, hands spread in a gesture of hopeless absolution. "Yes, I would have killed."

The shock on her face was plain to see, and he turned away from it then, shoulders bowed. What she must think of him, such wickedness as he allowed her to see— if she still believed him to be insane, a lonely lunatic who could never take his place in her heart—

Christine's head lifted and she called to him, "Erik! Master of my madness! If you had not locked me in here yourself I would have bound myself to you with chains— I love you more dearly than life itself and were you to take my soul away from me now, I would die happy to see your face."

His head snapped up at once and warmth flooded into his eyes.

He was not insane.

No, no, not insane.

But his sanity was a very particular sort—

And he was quite ready to trust a madwoman.

He turned back to her, her confession touching him deeply and eliciting a reaction— reached out and caught her by the shoulders, his thin fingers digging painfully into her flesh.

"At last!" he cried. "At last I have you!" She struggled a little, his hands hurt her. "And— even now do you seek to turn me away? Would you deny me thus— would you deny your poor Erik thus after all that has passed? You say you love me, Christine—"

She stopped struggling and her eyes filled with tears. "Would that I had denied you nothing!" she answered, trembling. "Nothing— do you hear, Erik? _Nothing_— and again— _nothing_! For it all belongs to you, my life, body and soul— you who are weak have conquered."

Oh, how Erik cried then— how he wept! He drew Christine towards him and kissed her mouth, her throat, her eyes, her tears— he knew the bitterness of soul that is love, for this was what love meant— to give up yourself utterly, just when you are at your most powerful.


	10. Chapter 10

Ten

"We shall find Nadir," he said. "I dare not ask anyone else."

"Nadir? But, Erik—"

"Do not fear, dearest child. It was Nadir who buried me when I was dead— don't you know?— and he should be the one to join me to the one I love best, most, and only." He let go of her and stared at her keenly. "You never wanted a big wedding, did you?"

She laughed. "No, Erik. Never. And I never _will_ want one, what is more. Only two are needed, Erik, when it all comes down to basics—"

The meaning in her eyes and voice was clear, but Erik only shook his head in response to it.

"No, no, Christine. We will be wed. It will be a reality. It _must_ be a reality for it to feel right. I would not have it any other way."

She smiled bravely. "Then neither would I."

He looked at her a moment longer, then managed to smile back.

"And your young man—"

"Raoul will have to wait," she said, very clearly.

Erik laughed gleefully, a sound like nothing she'd heard before. It thrilled her to her very soul.

"Raoul will have to wait!" he repeated. "Raoul will have to wait, alone, and you will be with me!"

"There is one thing, Erik—"

All the madness in his eyes had gone when she told him she loved him, hidden behind joy— some of it now returned. Things were not final, nothing was final until you were dead, even at the altar she could leave him, even on the wedding night, leave him behind—

"Erik— I refuse to marry a man in a mask. It is either that or I— one of us may last, perhaps, but not both."

Erik stared at her. Slowly he stood and left the room. Christine fought back panic— surely he would not choose—

He returned a moment later with a small, thin knife in his hand. He held it out to her.

"I cannot bear to lose you again," he said. "If you are sure the sight of me will not— will not harm you."

She looked at him and knew how much this hurt him, how much even now he worried that his face would send her away from him. She guided him to a chair and, standing over him, began to loose the mask from his flesh. The dusty brown of dried blood was revealed as she pulled at the sutures; quickly joined by a thick dark red as scars and flesh were disturbed. The stitches were thankfully not tight, but both of them were crying as she pulled the thread from his face.

The visage under the mask was every bit as horrific as she remembered, a strange miscarriage of creation— she dropped the knife and the mask to the floor, knelt besides Erik's chair, and kissed the twisted, deformed skin on the right side of his face. It was cold and clammy, but warmed beneath her lips.

Erik's eyes were closed, blood joined the tears that continued to trace their slow way down his face— she kissed them away, his blood on her lips, his tears on her tongue. She would not speak, let her silence be her witness, sought to bring Erik back to her, to replace the pain with love.

Finally he uttered a last choking sob and turned his head—

His lips met hers with all the force and urgency of years.


	11. Chapter 11

Eleven

"Nadir."

"Yes, Erik."

"We will find Nadir."

"We will, Erik."

He stopped pacing and turned to face her. There was something he wished very much to say—

"Will you— if I—"

It would not come out right. But Christine guessed what he meant.

"If you send me," she said evenly, "I will return with all possible speed, and with Nadir in tow. I promise you, Erik— I swear it to you on my life. For my life would be nothing without you."

He breathed in a staggered breath, and nodded.

To let her go would kill him.

To hold her close would undo him.

She promised she would come back.

He held out his hand, and she took it.

He showed her one of the ways out— it was a long and winding pathway but she thought she could find it again on her way back. She mentioned as much and he smiled and closed his eyes briefly—

—reminding himself that she would come back, that he had to be alive when she got back, that he could not allow this to kill him—

She kissed him goodbye, sweetly, arms about his neck, then kissed the ravaged skin on the right side of his face. He felt naked without the mask— her kisses clothed him.

She released him too soon, and smiled warmly at him, her face flushed. Erik managed to smile back.

"Goodbye," he whispered.

"Au revoir, dear heart," she corrected him.

"Dear heart," he said, clutching his arms to him. "Goodbye— dear heart!"

She touched his hand and was gone. Erik sat down and waited.

Christine emerged into the cloakroom of the Opera Populaire. She smiled to herself, thinking how odd it was that Erik had so many secret passages and none of them had ever been discovered— it was no wonder people believed him to be a ghost. He had been able to come and go utterly as he chose, without needing to let walls hinder or stop him. She even smiled fondly at the tiny, dust-covered room, remembering briefly how it had been when the opera house was busy, bustling with patrons—

She walked out of the door and headed towards the main entrance. The great double doors would be locked, of course, but there was a side door that she could easily get out of. She stared at the ceiling of the once-grand building, pushing back a sudden desire to see the auditorium, the main theatre where she had once sung, been famous, been paid compliments—

Why should she not give into her curiosity? She would only be a moment, and surely Erik would understand.

She changed course and moved towards the grand staircases. They too were covered in dust, looking far more ancient than they should have, but they did not creak under her weight, a fact which she was grateful for. The fire must not have ravaged here. She ascended the stairs and went through the arched openings into the theatre.

"_Oh_," Christine breathed. Here the fire had done the worst— the seats were twisted, broken hulks, the stage was half charred, the balconies blackened and falling apart. She instantly regretted coming in— it was a terrible, sad sight, compared to the way she had known it, so bright and alive—

The carcass of the broken chandelier still lay in the middle of the room, glass glinting in the light that came through the windows. It seemed to her terribly morbid to have left it there— she could not understand the fact that it was not cleaned up, laid to rest—

There was a movement in the shadows to her left. She turned towards them with a gasp.

"Erik?" she asked.

The shadows moved towards the light, and took on the form of a man.

"Somehow I knew I would find you here," said Raoul.


	12. Chapter 12

Twelve

"Why did you follow me, Raoul?"

He panted after her.

In a blind panic, Christine had caught hold of him and pulled him out of the room, not speaking or allowing him to speak until they were out of the Opera House. Suppose Erik should see them together—

No, he must not see.

They walked down the street now, it was late morning, the bustle of the early morn slowly dying. Raoul caught at her hand.

"Three days, Christine— you were gone three days— "

She swung back on him and attempted to detach her hand but he wouldn't let go. She wanted to tell him that time meant nothing, in her mind— had it been three days or three months, it would make no difference. But the words would not come, and Raoul spoke on.

"I knew you must have gone there— to the basements of the Opera Populaire— I thought you must have gone to mourn over Erik's— over his grave. But then you didn't come back— I was out of my mind with worry, Christine, just as I feared— you must be out of your mind with grief. That was the only explanation I could think of."

"Really," she said quietly. "The only one."

The confusion in his eyes made it clear. The thought had never crossed his mind that Erik might still be alive. He thought only that she had gone insane with sorrow— which was not, in itself, so far from the truth.

She did not want to tell him the truth, she wanted nothing more than to run away from him, run back to Erik and lose herself in him, stranding Raoul in the catacombs of Erik's labyrinth. But she— she had loved Raoul—

"Come, Christine," said Raoul, hurt plain in his voice. "We are nearly married. And married people do not keep secrets."

That was it.

She tore Raoul's ring from her finger and flung it at him.

"We are not married, Raoul, we are not engaged, as of this moment we have no understanding whatsoever." The pain welled in his eyes and she wanted to look away from him, she was afraid if she kept looking at him he would convince her—

She tried to explain.

"Raoul, while Erik lives I cannot love you, nor anybody else. He has captured my soul in his fingertips, he holds the entirety of my heart."

His eyes blazed.

"_Erik lives_," he whispered.

She straightened her back and did her best to look firm and forbidding. "Erik lives," she repeated.

"I should have known," said Raoul. The look on his face was something terrible to see. "I should have known— that God-forsaken carcass of a man could not die! He will outlive us all! He will see us destroyed, Christine— that's all he wants—"

"No!" she cried.

"Christine—"

"_No!_"

Raoul's eyes were filled with hatred, hatred for Erik. His mouth was twisted into the first cruelness she had ever observed in him— fear of losing her made him cruel, made him rash. He reached out and grabbed her arm, tugging her towards him.

"Christine, you are not in your right mind, and I am taking you home."

"No!" she screamed once more, and fought him, clawed at his hand on her arm. "No!"

"Yes!" he roared back, in a panic, heedless of the looks they were gaining from worried passers-by. He began to pull her back towards his carriage, which he had left a block away.

"No, Raoul, you can't!"

"I can and I will! You are mine, Christine, and I do not share my possessions with anyone, least of all a madman who lives under an opera house and who should by rights be dead."

She screamed, and begged, and cried, but she was weak, and Raoul got her into the carriage without much difficulty. Even there she raged on at the walls, forcing Raoul to enfold her in his arms simply in order to stop her hurting herself.

"To my home," he shouted at the driver. "At once!"

He returned his attention to Christine, who was sobbing now, losing her mad strength. Raoul was genuinely worried.

"He would not be good for you, Christine," he said, he repeated over and over. "I cannot let you go back there, to become the wife of a— a carcass— a cadaver— he is not a man, Christine, he is not real, he could not be good for you or for your sanity—"

He feared, he truly feared, that her sanity was already beyond recall.

"Three days," he murmured, drawing her close to him. She sobbed on his shoulder. "Three days, and finally he lets you free— and already you are mad enough to want to return to him—"

"Erik, Erik, Erik—" she sobbed, pounding on him with weak fists. He soothed her, running a hand over her hair.

Reaching his home, he carried her inside— weakened as she was, she cried still, and spoke Erik's name. He laid her on the bed in one of the guest rooms and barked out an order to a housemaid— "Fetch Doctor Anmes at once." The girl darted off, and he returned to Christine's side, touching her, soothing her—

"What has he done to you?" he enquired gently, not really expecting an answer.

But Christine pulled back from the depths of her darkling mind and replied to him—

"Only loved me," she said. "He only loved me, and I let him— I wanted him to— I still want him— and is he to be punished for that, for loving me?" She moaned and turned on her side, facing away from him. "Oh, Raoul, why not kill me right off, if you are to take my heart from me and so see me die little by little? I never thought you could be so cruel—"

Raoul stood shocked by her words, and deeply disturbed. He pushed their possible meaning away from him and sat by her, taking possession of her hand, waiting for the doctor to come, waiting for sanity to return to his finally-found beloved.

* * *

Dr. Anmes took off his glasses and looked gravely at Raoul.

"She is in a very weakened state. I would say she has not eaten in three or four days, and most likely not had much to drink in that time either. She is severely dehydrated, and as you can see is suffering also from lack of sleep. Let her rest— send in a maid and have her washed in bed. I would not advise exposing her entire body to water at once. She may take a chill, and that would be a grave misfortune indeed.

Raoul nodded and shook his hand, thanking him. As he walked him to the door, he managed to get out half of what he wanted to say.

"Dr. Anmes, would you be able to tell—"

The doctor turned and looked at him.

"That is," Raoul faltered, "I fear she has been encaged by a madman, and— I know not what horrors he subjected her to— he fancied himself in love with her, a few months ago, and wished her to become his— his wife." Raoul stopped there, a sense of decency kept him from going on. He blushed shamefully at what he had dared to say.

The doctor stared at him tolerantly. He was a gentle, realistic, older man, with a vast knowledge of the world and human nature. He had no such scruples as the young Vicomte.

"You wish to know if she has been taken advantage of," he said frankly. "Raped."

Raoul swallowed, and nodded.

The doctor sighed and returned his glasses to his face.

"My dear monsieur, the entire time I was in there examining the patient, the young woman spoke incessantly of a man— she called him her angel, her life, her love." He nodded slowly, watching Raoul's face as the young man blushed deeply. "Unless your first name is Erik, rape is not what I would be worried about." So saying, he walked out, having left instructions for Christine's care with a housemaid whom he trusted more to keep a level head than he did the young Vicomte.

All Raoul could think about was that Dr. Anmes had not answered his question.

The question which burned inside him—

Which made him sick— which had literally made him violently ill when he tortured himself by thinking about it, so he ran outside and crumpled to the ground in the middle of the small wooded park that was on the de Chagny estates— rolled over and over, retching, crying, and thinking of Christine lying in the arms of a man whom he had come to hate with such passion—

It could not be true. He would not believe it. Christine loved him, she would never—

If_ he_ had forced her—

She had come back to him now. Raoul held that thought to him as a comfort. It had been three days, but she had returned at last—

Except—

_It had been two months— and she had returned to Erik— _

He left the doorstep and went back inside, walking with a slow and measured tread to the door of Christine's bedroom. She was awake now, staring at the ceiling, but very nearly comatose— she'd been given a large dose of laudanum and should soon, or so the doctor had said, be asleep. Raoul crept in and sat by her.

He bent over her and endeavored to attract her attention.

"Christine—"

She refused to look at him, kept staring dreamily at the ceiling.

"Christine—"

He took her by the chin and forced her to look at him. "I need to know," he said quietly but earnestly. "It will haunt me— it will drive me insane, Christine. I need to know what went on between you and Erik."

She gazed at him coolly with her liquid eyes.

"I told you already," she said. "I told you all that went on all the time I've known him— between me and Erik— he would hold me when I was cold, and we grew warm together. He used to sing me to sleep. When I first knew that he was a man, and not an angel, I was devastated— but then I was glad. And I am more glad now. I could not touch an angel, nor kiss an angel— and Erik belongs to me. He told me so, he wept and swore and told me so. He belongs to me to kiss whenever I please."

Raoul was sobbing now, pent-up breath escaping haphazardly through his parted lips. "Christine, no, tell me you love me— you belong to me, Christine, and I to you— we don't need anyone else, Christine—"

Her eyes looked even more faraway. "That's what _he _said," she murmured. "Erik said, now that I had come back to him, he didn't need anything or anyone else, and he could lock the world away— oh, _Erik_!" She suddenly seemed to come back to herself and began to struggle, throwing his hands away from her and attempting to fling the bedcovers off her body. "_Erik_!" She was weakened by the laudanum, and could not unseat Raoul, who took her arms and pinned them to the bed, afraid she would hurt herself. "Erik! I must go to him, he will crawl in a hole and die if I do not! Erik— _Erik_!"

Raoul held onto her, still crying, till she quieted and lay back, the laudanum beginning to work its way into her. Even then he held her arms, running his hands up and down them, caressing her skin, his teardrops in silence falling onto the sheets.

"Christine," he said, "what have you done? What have you done?"

"I did nothing," she said, beginning to slip into slumber. "It was Erik's doing— he is— _irresistible_." She breathed this last word, closing her eyes. Raoul stared at her, slowly letting her go and drawing back.

She was mad, and she was damaged goods, and she was his.

He was engaged to damaged goods.

He would marry damaged goods.

The onus she would bring on him would ruin him, slowly but surely, in the eyes of the society in which he dwelt.

She was no longer his Christine— if she had not lain with Erik in body, she had done so in mind. She had given herself, body and soul, to the man beneath the opera house. She loved Erik and she could love no one else.

Raoul revolted against the thought.

He did not know what to do.

It was only his pride, his sense of decency, and the last vestiges of a ruined love that kept him from sending Christine away that moment. As it was, he found himself suddenly not able to bear her presence, and went away, leaving the room, slamming the door behind him— she would not wake up, drugged as she was, and who cared if she did— and stomping to his own bedroom, kicking the door shut violently behind him in a frenzy of wounded pride.

He offered her everything— his love, his life— and she returned to Erik still—

Finally Raoul sat down and buried his head in his hands, and cried and cried and cried.


	13. Chapter 13

Thirteen

When Christine awoke, she was utterly disoriented. There was light around her, but it was fading— she was warm, wrapped in bedclothes, and the walls were white. For a moment she thought she must have been back in her bedroom at home, a little girl still, and any moment her father would come in, smiling, and request her to wake and dress for the day, to come down and help him make breakfast—

Then she remembered he was dead, and she was grown. Young, but grown. And perhaps this room was her room in the boarding house, and perhaps she still sang at the Opera Populaire, and perhaps Raoul was only a boy she had known long ago, and her Erik would be there tonight, to give her lessons—

She comforted herself with this fiction for some time, lying quiet, eyes dreamy and unfocused, as the light grew dim and shadows grew long. As long as she was undisturbed she was content to believe this dream, this lovely fantasy that nothing could be wrong, that all was right with the world—

The moment Raoul entered the room she knew it was a lie.

His face was white and strained, there were dark shadows under his eyes. He swallowed and looked disgusted at the sight of her, looked as though he couldn't bear her presence— but forced himself to walk over to her and sit stiffly in a chair at her side.

She knew something was wrong, but she didn't know what. She stared at him, confused.

"Raoul, what is it?"

He swallowed again. "I was wondering when you would wake up."

"But—" she said, and could not think of the words she wanted.

"The doctor said to let you rest. I suppose it was the best thing, and I assume you are feeling much stronger after such a long slumber."

"Long slumber— Raoul—"

"Are you hungry? I will have the maid bring you something to eat."

There was something he was not telling her, something escaping her mind—

There was a voice in her head; it cried and it moaned, but she could not understand the words—

Then suddenly, she did.

She stared at Raoul in horror.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"You need not worry, I have taken good care of you."

"How _long_, Raoul?"

The muscles of his face worked, and finally he said, quietly, "The irony of it almost amuses me. Three days."

"_Erik!"_

She flung back the bedcovers and stood up immediately, fighting off a wave of nausea. Raoul leapt to his feet and tried to constrain her— with all her strength she placed her hands on his chest and shoved him back into the chair. He fell awkwardly, staring up at her in utter disbelief.

"You are mad, Christine!"

"Perhaps I am!" she screamed at him. "How could you keep me here, how could you keep me away from Erik when he is dying! He swore he would die if I did not come back— you have killed him, Raoul!"

He stood back up, his hands bunched into fists. "Good if I have!" he bellowed back. "He deserves to die— he is not fit to live! He has ruined my life, Christine, mine and yours— he took our lives together away from us! And you were his willing accomplice in this murder— if you wish to return to me, you will have to beg me, Christine— beg my forgiveness and throw yourself on the mercy of society."

She stared at him, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

Raoul forced his fists to unclench and took a long, shuddering breath.

"He has taken your purity from you, Christine," he said.

Christine's face burnt bright red and again she lifted her arms and pounded her fists on Raoul's chest as hard as she could. "_How dare you_!" she screamed. "How _dare_ you say such a thing! He did nothing— do you hear me, Raoul de Chagny? Erik is the least guilty of us all!"

Raoul's face had gone white and he stumbled back, away from her. She followed, her teeth clenched and her eyes flashing fire, reaching out to hit him again, hurt him any way she could.

"I cannot believe you! After everything— I _loved_ you, Raoul— I gave you my heart—"

"And I gave you mine," he mumbled, looking embarrassed, looking betrayed. Christine stopped, stood still and put her hands down at her sides.

"I am sorry," she said. "Deeply sorry, Raoul. But if I have betrayed you now, I betrayed Erik long ago. I gave him my heart first. He is the one with a rightful claim."

Raoul stared at the floor, unwilling and unable to meet her gaze. She stood some minutes more, bringing her breathing back under control, gaining some measure of composure.

"I thank you for watching over me, for wanting to protect me," she said. "But I am not mad, Raoul— at least, not that way. And if I am mad in Erik's manner— well, I must return to him, and we will be mad together."

He stepped away from her and went to the window. The Paris of early evening unfolded beneath him.

"I must return," she said again. "I do not know how long he has left— I see death in his eyes— smell it on his breath— he tastes of it." She shivered suddenly. "I belong with him, for as long as possible."

"Do you love him," Raoul enquired, in a voice so low that she almost didn't catch it.

"Yes," she said. "I do."

He turned his head back to the window without another word.

"I must go. I— I do not expect to see you again— Monsieur de Chagny."

"Do not say that, Christine. Erik may be dying, but you will not die with him. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you, and I—" He faltered, his pride unwilling to let him finish. But Christine understood.

"I am sorry," she said once again, and left. He heard her footsteps down the hall, and after some minutes saw her emerge onto the street beneath him, head turning this way and that to discern which direction she should go. A small smile quirked his lips, a smile of sadness and regret— and hope.

"Au revoir—" he breathed, his breath making a small cloud on the window pane. "—Madame Opera Ghost.


	14. Chapter 14

Fourteen

Christine hurried, stumbling and panting, along the Paris streets. The lamps were being lit, and panic was making her breath short. She had to get to Erik— she must find Erik—

She reached the Opera House and raced at once to the tunnel entrance where she had left him. He was not there— she had not really expected him to be there— she had hoped, of course—

Not pausing to catch her breath, she raced on.

She reached the lair and ran through the few rooms, calling him at the top of her voice—

"Erik! Erik!"

There was no answer but that which her echo returned to her. She stood in front of the abandoned organ, tears coming to her eyes, staring at the destruction which he had made when she denied his advances—

Only three days ago.

Three days!

A lifetime for Erik, poor, miserable, waiting Erik!

He was not there— she could not find him— there were hundreds of secret corridors where he could have hidden himself away— thousands! She could never find him on her own— she would never find him—

"_I— I hid myself away. There was a place— a hole, really— dark— no-one could find me there. No-one knew of its existence— except me— and Nadir. The daroga— the daroga came for me."_

Christine turned and ran back to the tunnel entrance.

There was a moment of vivid, vicious fear as she could not locate the lever that opened the tunnel, and then as she blundered in a blind panic she hit it by accident. Up the tunnel she went, running, stumbling, falling, picking herself up again and running on, desperately, as though the devil himself were behind her—

_Erik— _

She reached the opera house proper— she was through it all in the blink of an eye, feet pounding as she raced for the door.

_Erik— _

She made it onto the street and spent a precious few seconds trying to get a hansom cab. There were only a few, and the drivers ignored her. It was late, and surely she must look suspicious, dressed in a streaming white nightgown, her hair hanging loose and bedraggled over her shoulders, her face pale, eyes wide. Even the horses shied away from her.

They probably thought she was a ghost—

_Erik!_

She ran.

She ran in the direction of the house of Nadir Khan, which was a goodly distance away. She made it in twenty minutes and banged on the door so hard she bruised her fist. She concentrated on getting her breath back—

_Erik!_

—while she waited for the door to open— when finally it did, revealing the dressing-gown-swathed form of the bewildered daroga, she did not wait for him to invite her inside, but grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out with her.

"Mademoiselle Daae!"

"You found him once," she panted. "You must find him again. You must show me the hole where he hid himself, Nadir— I must find him right now."

"Mademoiselle Daae— please, I do not understand."

She dropped his arm and turned to face him. "I went to him!" she cried. "You tried to make me believe that he was dead, but you failed! I knew, I knew he could not be dead— not my Erik— he would have said goodbye, you see. And so I went, and I found him. And I told him I loved him, and he told me he loved me— he loves me! and I came to get you, to stand as witness for us— only Raoul was there— and he took me home— and I was gone for three days— three days, Nadir! And when I came back to myself and left to find Erik, he was gone— missing— I cannot find him, Nadir! And he said he is dying— he cannot be dead, he would say goodbye to me—"

Her breath caught in her throat and she nearly retched, there on the street.

As she had left—

"_Dear heart," he said, clutching his arms to him. "Goodbye— dear heart!"_

She screamed aloud, a heart-breaking sound, and raced on down the street. Nadir, utterly baffled but also utterly worried, chased after her, puffing.

He caught up to her at the corner— she was crying too hard to run very fast, she was out of breath— and took her arm.

"Don't cry," he said frantically, holding her. "Do not cry, Mademoiselle Daae— we will find him— we will—"

"_Find him_," she whispered, choking on her tears. "_Find him now— daroga—_"

He now led her at a stumbling run down the avenue that led to the Opera House. No longer weeping, she showed him the door that was open, and then the tunnel inside the cloakroom. He went down first, arriving in the main room of Erik's lair and sparing a brief glance for the grate, which was still irrevocably closed.

"Where, Nadir?"

She hadn't drawn breath since they entered the Opera House.

"Over here." He walked swiftly to the wall where the organ stood, running his hands over the paneling— underneath his fingers, a latch clicked, and another tunnel stood open before him.

"In there, Mademoiselle. Shall I—"

"No," she whispered, shouldering past him. "Let me."

It was a low tunnel, not nearly tall enough to stand in. Christine went to her knees and began to crawl. The air smelt stale, and was very cold— cold enough to keep a body from rotting for a short time—

_Three days— _

Christine swallowed, and breathed past the panic that threatened to choke her. She crawled on.

The floor of the tunnel left dirt on the palms of her hands, the front of her dress— she should have removed it before she entered, it only got in the way. No time for that now. She struggled on.

It was not a long tunnel, especially when compared with some of the ones Erik had built elsewhere— but in Christine's eyes it lengthened till she could not fathom there ever being an end—

It loomed up in front of her suddenly, a panel built to slide into the tunnel wall. She sat back on her feet and grasped the handle and thrust it to one side—

The utter stillness of the form that greeted her robbed her of breath.

She lurched forward and threw Erik's inert form onto his back, grabbing at his throat, feeling frantically for a pulse—

A quiet moment of blind fear—

A flutter under her fingertips—

She cried aloud her thanks to God and showered kisses on his sleeping face.

_Erik lived_!


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: This chapter and one more!**

**Fifteen**

Erik crawled from his dark and dusty hole, incredibly weakened, coughing the dust from his lungs. Christine followed him, leaping out at once to support him even as Nadir advanced to them both, with a cry of gladness.

Erik slumped to the ground, leaning against the wall, Christine crouching beside him— he bent his shoulders, buried his face in her hair. Her arms about him, Christine turned a beaming face on the watching daroga.

"He lives, Nadir— he lives!"

Nadir got Erik finally to the bed in Christine's room— she refused to allow him to be placed in the coffin. Erik relaxed against the pillows, utterly exhausted— Christine sat at his side, running her hands over his, placing gentle kisses on his fingers, singing him the lullaby her father had once sung to her, till he fell once more into sleep. The mask gone, his whole face showed a relaxed and peaceful happiness that he had never known.

Some scars heal.

Christine released his hand and stole back out to the main room to speak with Nadir.

He sat on Erik's stool at the organ, staring down at the keys, not daring to touch them. Erik's music had been such a part of his soul that to touch his instruments seemed sacrilege. Nadir knew, however, that the organ would never play again.

Reaching out, he ventured to run his fingertips over the keys, just the merest brush of his skin—

Immediately there was a quiet moan from the organ, and a corresponding moan from the slumbering Erik in the other room.

"He does not want you to do that," said Christine.

Nadir jumped and turned to face her. He had not known she was behind him.

She advanced towards him, smiling, holding out her hand— putting his sudden, absurd fear of this tiny woman behind him, rejecting it as ridiculous, he stood and took her fingers in a light grasp, pressing a fond kiss to her palm. She drew her hand back at once; already knowing herself to belong to one man, and one alone. The expression on her face was not a smile.

"I must give you my thanks— and Erik's— you have helped us more than you can know."

He bowed. "On the contrary, my lady, I realize I have made it possible for you to be together, and I accept all possible credit."

She smiled now, and laughed, looking for just a split second like the Christine Daae who entered the Opera House for the first time, all those years ago. Then the image faded, and the oddness returned to her gaze.

"I do thank you," she said with sincerity, "and even forgive you for endeavoring to keep me from him. I understand now why you did it."

He bowed again, slightly.

She watched him for a moment.

"I must know the truth, daroga— Erik is dying, isn't he?"

Nadir bowed his head, his eyes going to the floor, unable to meet Christine's steady gaze.

"I fear," he whispered. "I very much fear."

"And you do not know how long he has left."

"He told me he was dying of love— love for you, Mademoiselle Daae— Christine. With you returned to him, who knows how long he can manage to last?"

She nodded, waiting for his eyes to come back up and meet hers.

"It matters not," she said softly. "It will not be long enough, whether it be one year or a thousand. Or even— as I fear— less—"

"A month," said Nadir quietly. "Perhaps two."

Christine's lashes veiled her eyes suddenly and she bit her lip to keep from crying. Nadir held his hand out to her.

"After all this time, to finally let him know I belong to him— and then to lose him so soon—" She stared at his hand.

"I understand," said Nadir.

She took his hand and he led her into his comforting, fatherly embrace, where she cried her tears out on his shoulder.

Erik's words:

_You will bear a child, Christine, and if it is mine it too will die!_

Some people are destined to be left by everyone they love.


	16. Chapter 16

Sixteen

Nadir came out of the room wherein Erik had lain so long asleep, surprising a reflective Christine who had been staring at the still-closed grate and the placid surface of the lake. She turned to him, a question evident in her eyes.

He nodded.

"He is ready— it is time."

Christine gulped in air, trying to soothe the pounding of her heart, the sudden roaring in her ears. Nadir held out a hand to her— she took it, fingers shaking, muscles quivering, and he led her into the other room, led her to her Erik.

The words spoken in that simple ceremony would not have been memorable to anyone but the two who stared at each other with wide-awake eyes. Nadir was not an eloquent man, but in a time like this eloquence was not required, or even requested. He spoke the important words— they repeated after him, Erik's voice broken and nervous, Christine speaking with a beautiful serenity that did not betray the turmoil she felt inside.

When it was over, Nadir joined their hands together and bowed his head.

"What God has yoked together, let no man put apart—"

"Till death," said Erik.

"Till death," said Christine.

Nadir left soon after, wending his way back up to the surface, leaving behind two souls who found themselves at last in a certain kind of peace.

And there was left before them nothing— and everything— and the night.

Erik looked up as Christine re-entered the room, having bathed in the lake. He had an hour ago washed the dust and grime from his body, and they stood before each other shining clean, almost reborn. He looked hollow, his face gaunt, his eyes haunted. She longed to fill him, take away his pain, but first there was a delicate matter which she felt she must attend to.

"You told me our child would die. Why?" she asked quietly. "Why would you threaten me like that?"

He shook his head, sorrow and long-pent-up longing in his face. "Not a threat— a warning—"

She tilted her head to look at him. "A warning— not a prophecy?"

"No— only a deadly fear." He shivered. "It cripples me to think of you hurt, Christine."

She smiled blissfully, closed her eyes. "You will not hurt me, Erik. Nothing you can do will hurt me, except forget me. Come here."

He did, slowly, hesitant, even now fearing rejection. It broke her heart to see him so afraid. She reached out and took his hand, drew him down on the bed beside her.

They held each other close for a while, before she drew away to undo the laces of her nightgown. He closed his eyes fast as she removed it.

"Erik."

He shook his head but would not look up.

"Erik, look at me—"

She pressed her lips to his closed eyelids, and he sighed softly. When her fingers began to undo his buttons, he pushed them away.

"Erik!" She gripped his hands tight. "I am your wife, Erik— and I have my rights."

His breath left him in a gasp.

"My wife," he said. "My wife— Christine, love— heart— breath— lifeblood—"

It terrified her to be here with him. She put it aside. Now nearly naked, he shivered, and she drew him close, warming him with her heat.

"Erik, know that I will never leave you."

The tears began.

_Abandon sanity— _

_Abandon madness, Erik— _

_Abandon thought— _

He was crying and trembling too hard to manage on his own, and finally she reached down and guided him. His cheek was hard against hers, his breath in her ear as he prayed and begged deliverance, acceptance, forgiveness from her, from God, from everyone.

And then she could no longer hear him; but it didn't matter. Her eyes were closed and his voice was inside her— a part of her.

The pain and the joy of it melded the broken pieces of their hearts together.

She dreamed that he left her side and returned to sleep in his coffin alone— the only place he felt he belonged— but when she awoke, he lay still beside her, breathing quietly. She was mesmerized by the slow rise and fall of his chest, by the innocence of his tear-stained face.

He was still here— drawn from his solitary madness by the strength of her love.

He awoke to find her staring down at him. She rewarded his awakening with a smile and a kiss.

"You belong to me," she said, "and I to you."

He nodded, his face pressed against her skin. She wrapped her arms about him, held him close.

"Christine," he whispered into her throat. "Sing for me."

The flutter of her pulse under his lips made his own heart quicken; underneath his hand he felt her heartbeat, regular, steady, pounding for him. He was so happy— he thought he would die of happiness—

For a silent and desperate moment his spirit flickered.

But life lingered.

His breath strengthened.

She sang for him, and Erik breathed her in. His long fingers moved over her arms, trailed down her breast and over her belly, feeling the flutter of life deep within, caressing, soothing—

Orchestrating—

Playing his last, most perfect instrument.

On the other side of the wall, the organ sat silent, listening.

After a time, Erik's voice joined that of his beloved, twining together, becoming one, and ascending finally to heaven.

_I take it upon me_

_To decide freedom's worth_

_To judge this happiness_

_Of heaven on earth_

_No life alone_

_When you belong to me_

_To bring me back_

_Where I belong to be_

_To pick up the pieces _

_Of my shattered mind_

_When I lay finally_

_In your arms entwined_

_Enwrap't in light, angelic love,_

_Let darkness at last descend— _

**A/N: Thanks so much to all my lovely readers and reviewers!**

**MouetteHeartsErik, Sloe-eyes13, Liriel-eris, YoukoElfMaiden, Mominator, Jeevesandwooster, KitArchivist, DarkMoonLightBright, AngelOfMusic387, fictionreader, ladyerik, Mizamour, phantomofleopera, trecebo, Twinkle22, Mongie, No One Mourns the Wicked, babymene17, TheatreAngel, Sarah Crawford, VeroniqueClaire, patiens-liberi, Kagome1514, Lissy-panda, LudivinePHLover, Mystic Darkness, Punjab Happy Friend, Chantilly xx Lace, mrmistoffelees, Darkaus, A. N. Other Phan, Becky-Boo89, anticipated, Aratari, gavvie, Phoenix Angel 13, wendela, MsPhantom1029, CrazyCarl, A Phantom Moon, blahblahblah27, Gypsycatherine220, andersm, Gi Xian, Rozz and Maya, Misty Breyer, Dove of Night, nightfallssoftly, Mademoiselle O.G., Xern's Girl, BelacaniOnTheRez, Nugrey, TheChandelier, ahomelesspirate, Circe Rose, Goldilocks22, phtmangl1013, Lindseys Trachea, Ripper de la Blackstaff, Renee17, forgotten child, BelleLamour, erik'sangel527, fleetyfillyhpchic, letthedreamdescend, daferretgirl, brittanypiercy, BHS, Allison, AliciaRoseM, Emelie, Starleena, Masqueraders, AngelofMusic387, geckogirl, MoonLightRoseGoddess**

**Y'all were great, I'm really glad you enjoyed the story! I probably won't be starting any more after this, but be sure to check into my other phanfics if you haven't already done so. Thanks!**

**Your obedient writer,**

**Random**


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